


lay down a shrine

by arahir



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, eventual angst...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-18 19:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16125176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arahir/pseuds/arahir
Summary: Sometimes a family can be you, your niece, and the guy you've been embarrassing yourself in front of for the last couple decades.Runaan doesn't know the first verse of this song. He doesn't know how to heal or make or, evidently, hold this simple conversation. It's a small disaster. He pulls out a bag of coins unthinkingly, but the elf stops him. He reaches out and folds his calloused fingers over the bag and over Runaan's hand. “Don't, please,” he says.“But—”His hand tightens. “It's a gift.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the (maybe probably confirmed) headcanon that the elf we see in the credits making Runaan's necklace and mourning Runaan is in fact his honey. Summary is from chapter 2 because I don't know how to write short things the way I think I do.
> 
> Also I didn't name the elf that... Giancarlo Volpe did... I didn't choose this life...

He waits.

 

* * *

 

The elf has deft hands.

Runaan learns this the hard way—in blood and steel and the bright sparking of pain behind his eyes when he closes them in the hopes he won't embarrass himself further. Their first year of training was the hardest and the worst of his failures then are four years past. He hasn't misstepped in a long while, so it makes a dumb, divine kind of sense then that his first mistake is a self-inflicted wound.

The moon is high and he's practicing the art of keeping invisibility in a fight. It’s less art and more muscle memory. Training officially ended hours ago; his only opponents now are the trees and shadows. He flips off a branch, maintains the illusion on the landing and then jumps back up to repeat the move. On the third successful run through, he starts to get into it and it's not as though there's anyone there to see if he pulls a blade and tries get a little fancy. It hasn't worked out spectacularly well in the past, but practice makes perfect. He flips between branches, parries something that isn't there, and then lashes out at the nearest branch.

He realizes his mistake at the exact moment it’s too late to pull back. The blade lodges tight, the branch rebounds, and the knee-jerk attempt to block it from hitting him in the face is what undoes him. The blade launches back toward his head and then slices through the cloth on his arm like it’s thin as spider web—because, of course, he had to have a double-edged blade. And, of course, he isn’t wearing his armguards. Why bother with full armor for practice?

It’s less pain, more shame. With his spare hand he dislodges the blade and then tries to find something he can use to staunch the flow of blood. The only saving grace is no one’s there to see it—which is a thought he gets a total of three seconds to revel in before there’s a quiet cough from behind him.

Runaan spins around as a figure steps out of the shadows. The elf is familiar in the distant sense of someone he once knew. He’s got a sack over his shoulder with what looks like branches and leaves sticking out. Of course, Runaan would find the one occupied clearing in the entire forest to embarrass himself in.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

Runaan isn’t sure how to respond so he raises his freely-bleeding arm and mutters, “It’s just a nick.”

“That's a bit worse than a nick,” the elf murmurs, stepping closer. Without hesitating, he reaches out and takes Runaan’s arm in hand, turning it over with a quiet hiss of sympathy. “I think I have something…”

He trails off, sorting through his bag with his spare hand. Runaan tries to cop a glimpse of its contents, just to distract himself from the errant feel of skin on skin and the callouses on the elf’s long fingers and the numbness of knowing he’s made a fool out of himself. Now he’s so close, Runaan can half-recall him. It’s been years since they spoke—not since they were children.

With a little exclamation, he pulls something free of the bag. It looks like a bundle of weeds, but then he parts the stems and there’s a small vial hidden among them. The lack of organization makes Runaan flinch on principle. Before he can protest or say a word, the elf uncorks it and the smell almost knocks him back. It’s not bad—like herbs and wild things and the kind of medicine that helps, instantly, but tastes so bad you wonder if it’s worth it. Runaan prays he won’t suggest it’s something he has to eat.

He doesn’t. Instead, the elf holds it up to his eye. In the dark, Runaan can't quite identify the color—amber, maybe, like sap. He pours a drop out on his own fingers. Just a drop. It feels like oil and it's cold to touch, but the elf's fingers are gentle as he spreads it over the cut.

It doesn’t hurt much—or, the worse pain is to know he was caught in the middle of an imaginary duel with a tree branch, and one he lost, at that—but the moment the moment the salve is spread, it starts to work.

The relief is exquisite. “What is that?” he asks.

The elf releases his arm. In the moonlight, the exact shade of his eyes is indistinguishable. He's looking down, anyway. “Nothing. Something new I’m trying.” He glances up but doesn't hold eye contact. “Is it working?”

Runaan flexes. The cut stays sealed. It won't stand up to more training tonight, but at least it's not bleeding anymore. “Yes.” He doesn't mean his voice to come out quite so wondering. “Thank you.”

The elf puts the vial back in his bag and steps away. His hair is shorter than most of their kind keep it. The bangs hanging around his face make him seem younger than Runaan knows he is. It looks less for style than necessity, like he got tired of it getting in his way and shore it all off in one cut to save time. It suits him.

They grew up together, but that's all they have in common. He’s a nebulous presence, remembered more for what he does than who he is. Not many of their kind grow up wanting to make more than fight. Runaan wracks his brain for a name to put to his face and comes up empty.

It’s too late, anyway. The elf hefts the bag higher on his shoulder. “Be well, Runaan,” he says softly and turns to go. Of course, he knows Runaan’s name. Everyone does.

“Thank you,” Runaan repeats to his back, because it's all he can say.

The elf raises a hand but doesn't turn and then he disappears between the trees as fast as he appeared.

The encounter shakes him, somehow. For minutes after, Runaan stands in the bare clearing and listens to the wind and watches the moonlight dapple the grass and tries to remember the last time he had a moment to listen to the silence. The elf had a presence about him—a calmness. He's embarrassed, he realizes. Not for the wound, but for disturbing the night for him.

But Runaan isn’t a craftsman—not a builder or a teacher, barely a student anymore. For years now it's been fighting and training and training to fight, an infinite loop of the same thing day after day.

Runaan doesn't know how to be anything but what he is.

 

* * *

 

He waits.

In his shop, he watches life go by. His apprenticeship is years over, so he spends his spare moments making new things: confections of silver and stone and wood and twine and sometimes more. It’s a quiet life, but good. Collecting herbs in the forest was a whim. They can heal with magic and moonlight, but he’s always preferred what he could hold between his own two hands.

It was worth it. It’s been years since he got to see Runaan up close. He’s grown and hardened.

He’s the kind of perfection that doesn't come around every generation—and their generations are long. The door of the forge opens out on the street and the workshop has wide windows; Runaan doesn't have cause to come that way often, but once in a moon or so he goes by.

He’s had years to memorize the shade of Runaan’s hair and more to learn the color of his eyes on the rare occasion he gets close enough to catch the shade of their blue.

Runaan is a warrior. They say he's a prodigy. They say he's a fighter unparalleled. They say he'll be the next to lead the best of them. In the street, he hears all these quiet, admiring words. He collects them and runs them over in his spare time while he twists metal around stones and etches carvings into wood to stamp leather.

Craftwork is different from what Runaan does in every way it can be. It's a solitary art. He enjoys it plenty—loves it—even, but there were moments growing up that he wondered if he'd chosen right. Most often when he was stuck in the workshop on a good day, or when Runaan’s band was scheduled to arrive back and he had to miss the little celebration because you can’t leave a blade in the fire half-forged.

It's harmless to look. It's harmless to admire without hope, or, that's what he tells himself.

Two mornings after the encounter, Runaan walks into his shop. His expression doesn't match the mood of sun and singing birds outside. He fights the impulse urge to run and stands from his stool, trying for a smile that’s either eager or terrified. Hopefully something in the middle and Runaan won’t know the difference.

Runaan speaks before he can get a greeting off. “Do you have more of that…” he squints to himself for a moment, “...stuff?” It's an inelegant word for a voice as nice as his and a face as stern.

He hadn't expected to see Runaan face to face again for a long, long while, and not like this. Who trusts a strange elf in a night forest handing out stinking potions? It was a strange luck he found Runaan there at all. He almost thought it was a dream when he stepped into the clearing and saw his figure there, hunched over his hand—until he saw the blood, and then it was something else.

His mouth works as he considers a proper response. “I do.” _Just for you,_ he wants to add, but he knows better than to tease Runaan. He’s smiled twice in his life, maybe. His face is a thing of stone, carved to perfection. The lines over his nose make him look harsh, make his glances into glares that look like they could pierce as deep as his blade and arrows. They’re not a people not given to expressions of joy anyway, but for him it looks as if it’s some contract he made.

In the end, he gives Runaan all he has, and when Runaan pulls out a pouch to pay, he shakes his head. They operate on barter and trade more than money anyway, but he doesn’t want Runaan to owe him. “It’s a gift.”

Runaan stares at him with an odd light in his eyes and then he realizes his hand is on Runaan’s. It was an instinctual move, some subconscious want. It’s a useless, aimless thing that’s haunted him so long he almost forgot it was there at all. Everyone in the village is half in love with Runaan—or would be, if they thought it was worth pursuing.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and pulls his hand back.

Runaan is still staring at him, the same indecipherable expression on his face. If he’s angry it doesn’t show in his words. All he says is, “Thank you,” and turns to go.

Together, it’s more than they’ve spoken in most of a decade. When he’s gone and the shop is empty and quiet again, he sits and closes his eyes and tries to commit to memory the way he looked standing there, so out of place and so lovely, and then he settles back into wanting and waiting.

It’s the last he expects to see of Runaan for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> runaan: how do you tell someone you like them  
> rayla: i think you like leave a note or something
> 
> *three days later*
> 
> elf: yeah and he left me a note and all it said was "get out of my village" it was so weird  
> rayla: .....oh
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can follow me for bad memes [on tumblr](http://arahir.tumblr.com/) and [on twitter](https://twitter.com/arahir/)!!


	2. Chapter 2

Whatever the elf put on his cut, it heals in a day and a half and Runaan is left with a fading pink scar and the sensory memory of the elf’s hand on his arm. It’s an itch he can’t scratch, or doesn’t know how to. For so long his life has been held to a singular focus. Thinking beyond the scope of train-fight-study-eat-sleep-repeat takes a moment.

It's one of those sunny mornings when the air is fresh and crisp and full of life. It must go to his head, flood his better sense because he doesn't realize he's on the wrong path until he's standing in front of the door of a place he's rarely been.

The muscle memory for a good thing is long.

The shop is small, so old no one remembers when it was built. If memory serves, it’s under new management. When he steps inside, the elf is hunched over his work on the wood counter, teasing a strand of silver so thin it looks like spiders silk around an emerald stone. It seems frivolous, but Runaan's not one to judge. And it's beautiful. All his work is. It lines the walls, hangs off hooks and crowds spare stools.

So disorganized. He always was; even when they were young. Of course, he can remember that, but not the elf’s name. It's on the tip of his tongue as he closes the door behind him, but it flits out of reach the moment he’s noticed.

When the elf looks up, the world falls away. His eyes catch a bar of sun coming in the window and there's dust from his work sparkling in the air. He's beautiful—not in the severe way of most of their kind, but warmer. He smiles often and the markings on his cheeks are great swooping, curling things. Runaan wonders how far down they go and then has to catch himself because his eyes are going where they shouldn’t.

“Do you have more of that…” He doesn’t want to call it the wrong thing or embarrass himself again, but when the word, “Stuff?” falls out of his mouth, he knows he’s succeeded in both.

His words settle in the silence between them. The elf is looking up at  him, eyes still half-glowing. “I do,” he says after a moment and rises.

Runaan is treated to several minutes of watching his long fingers sort through drawers and shelves, memorizing the way they sift through the mess of it all. It must be something in the air. Or maybe he's had too many late nights in a row. He gets so lost in it that when the elf finally sets a small hoard of jars on the counter, Runaan forgets his gaze isn't supposed to be glued to the elf’s hands still.

“Do you make all of these?” he asks to distract himself.

The elf smiles. His bangs are hanging in front of his face again. “I don't know if it counts as making, but yeah. I suppose. It’s more—dabbling. Tinkering. I'm not very good with it yet.”

Runaan doesn’t know the first verse of this song. He doesn't know how to heal or make or, evidently, hold this simple conversation. It's a small disaster. He pulls out a bag of coins unthinkingly, but the elf stops him. He reaches out and folds his fingers over the bag and over Runaan's hand. “Don't, please,” he says.

“But—”

The hand over his tightens. “It's a gift.”

Gifts are for friends and honor is strong among their kind. He'll owe something for this. A favor, maybe, or a gift in return. He nods and tucks the thought away for later along with the bottles and finds he’s at a loss. He doesn’t want to walk out yet. There are questions he doesn’t know how to voice, and something else quiet and compelling. The room smells like cut cedar and it’s warm from the small forge. This space is so separate from the rest of their world. He wants to while away an hour, look at everything on the walls, listen to the sound of someone working.

But it’s been years since he had time for curiosity.

 

* * *

 

Runaan comes back. That's the surprise, but the shock of it wears off after the second visit. He comes in the evening right as spring passes to summer and asks for help fining the edge of his favorite blade. He comes in the morning when the sun is high and the day is already warm and asks if he knows how to whittle and if he does, and if he can, if he would carve something for Rayla. He asks for a set of daggers, a new quiver, a new pattern on his belt.

Sometimes, Runaan will take a meal with him, almost by accident, because the food is there and he can’t say no when the offer’s made. Once, Runaan brings his own—a loaf of bread and a skin of something warm and sweet and that sets its own precedent.

If he didn't know better, it would seem like a hundred little excuses that Runaan has to make for himself. For what, he can't imagine.

Maybe the fighting gets tiresome and it's nothing more than a chance to have some peace. He doesn't question it. It's rare luck to get a chance at making something for someone you care for, and Runaan is an old want. It sits forever in his chest, half-made. He could never find the courage to finish it, to be bold, to ask.

“Can you make other things, Tinker?” Runaan asks one night, leaning over the counter to watch him work.

They’ve eaten and the remnant smell of it, the weight of his gaze is heavy and heady and warm.

“Tinker,” he mutters to himself. “Is that my name?”

Runaan colors. “No. I'm sorry—”

“It's fine. I like it. What else do you want?” _I would make anything for you. I would call down the moon for you._ He’s a fool to think Runaan would want so much from him, but he doesn’t fight the sentiment. This is a silent promise he can nurse the rest of his life in perfect happiness.

_What if he finds someone else?_

He will, one day. He tells himself he wouldn't mind it. He'll always have these months, these little visits, a thousand tiny pieces of Runaan to sort and mill for the rest of his days.

Before him, Runaan opens his mouth and closes it and then clears his throat. “I want—” he tilts his head, taps one horn, “—armor.”

Now it's his turn to be speechless. He sets down the wire and the stone he’s been wrapping it around. “You—want armor?” Realization dawns and a smile tugs the corner of his mouth. “Armor,” he repeats to himself. No. Not armor. It's an ornament Runaan wants, the same silver work so many of them decorate their horns with. He'd thought Runaan's bare head a personal preference, like his simple braided hair: no nonsense, no confusion. Maybe the weight of metal on his head was a disadvantage in a fight.

“Like yours,” Runaan adds.

His voice is so soft he almost misses it.

 _His_ horns are overdone. It's a special indulgence to fit stones there, embed them in metal. He can't imagine that's what Runaan really wants, but he nods and tries to fight the heat that wants to rise in his cheeks. Runaan's eyes are fastened somewhere above him, looking at the metalwork there.

They were one of his first pieces, gaudy in simplicity. Runaan's will be better. He takes measurements that day. With all his other perfect memories, he secrets away two more: the softness of Runaan's hair and the way it looks like to have Runaan’s head bowed before him.

When he's done and Runaan pulls away and looks up, the only thing in his eyes is trust. He secrets that away, too.

It takes him the better part of a moon to craft them. First he shapes the metal, and then he etches it, adds ribbing and a pattern he hopes is subdued enough to accentuate what's already there more than attract attention to itself. Function over form, always. Runaan hates flashy things. The day he started wearing his hair half in a braid, it caused a minor crisis. It was only because it got too long to keep out of the way in a fight, but it was still strange to see the wildest, fiercest of them bring himself to order.

When he finally finishes, it’s a late and the moon is high. He takes them out of the shop in the cool and breeze and turns them back and forth in his hands, dew wetting his feet as he stands and marvels and hopes in the deepest, silliest part of him that Runaan will look at them the same way.

He does.

It takes an hour to shape them to his horns. Runaan is quiet, stoic. He only has to be reminded to sit still twice when he starts turning his head back and forth to feel the new weight of them.

“I made them light. They shouldn’t get in the way.”

Runaan stills when he’s finished. He doesn’t move, but he stares into the little mirror that’s set up on a stand on the counter for him and then glances upward. His eyes pierce. The look scares and bewitches. For a moment, he wonders if he’s done wrong, but Runaan only looks at him in the mirror and says softly,  “You must let me give you something for this. They’re perfect.”

He breaks the gaze. There's no way to admit to this, no way to express that giving Runaan these gifts is a recompense for what he's already taken. The vial of half-tested potion for the memorized color of his eyes in the moonlight, a belt for the sound of his laugh over a warm meal, a new dagger for the warmth of his company, and this for—something. He'll owe it eventually.

To his hands, he says, as he has a hundred times before, “It's a gift.”

Those old words are his touchstone. Runaan stands without a sound and turns to him. Runaan reaches out and the only reason he doesn't flinch back is shock at the proximity and the interest in his blue eyes.

With two fingers, Runaan tugs a lock of his hair.

It's sandy—not the pure white of the other elves or of Runaan’s. In the quiet and private, it's considered an imperfection, but he's too well liked and too needed for anyone to bring it up. In all his life, he can't recall anyone touching it. Before he can fully comprehend the act, Runaan tucks the strands behind his ear. He traces the swirling mark that curves under his sand bangs and over his jaw. It's not symmetrical. The curve on the left is a little back from his jaw, and the lines that complete it aren't quite the same. Now, Runaan studies it like it's some new marvel he's had forged and come to inspect.

Whatever conclusion he comes to is obscured by the moment he comes back to himself. It wasn't clear he was ever lost until that moment.

“I'll make it up to you, somehow.”

It feels like a promise. Those mean something to their people. Before he can reply, before he can object or argue or regret anything, Runaan pulls away and is gone like a wisp of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[on tumblr](http://arahir.tumblr.com/)] [[on twitter](https://twitter.com/arahir/)]


End file.
